The Dark Warden (Book 6) Read Free Page B

alarmed…
    “Foes?” said Morigna. 
    “No,” said Ridmark. “We’re here.”
     
    ###
     
    Ridmark led the way to the top of the hill, the others following him, and gestured with his staff.
    “The Torn Hills,” he said, his voice quiet.
    The land beyond did indeed look torn, countless rocky hills jutting from the diseased grasses, steep ravines lying between them. More poisonous bushes dotted the slopes, and thick patches of white mist swirled between some of the hills. Nearby Ridmark saw a wide valley, a stream tricking down its center, the ground on either side of the stream mottled white and yellow. 
    “What an unwholesome looking place,” said Jager. 
    “Few ever come here,” said Kharlacht. 
    “For entirely good reasons, it seems,” said Jager.
    “Those white spots,” said Gavin, squinting into the valley. “Are they…”
    “Bones,” said Ridmark. “Orcish bones, mostly. There was a battle here, long ago.”
    “Surely it was not that long ago,” said Morigna. “Else the bones would have crumbled to dust.”
    Ridmark shook his head. “Dead things do not always rot here.” He beckoned. “Stay watchful. Anything can be dangerous.”
    He led the way into the valley. The cold wind never stopped moaning, and the gray clouds writhed and danced. Ridmark scanned the valley and the surrounding slopes, watching for any threats. When he had last come to the Torn Hills nine years ago, he had reached Urd Morlemoch without much difficulty. But nine years ago, he had still been a Knight of the Soulblade, had still carried the Heartwarden into battle. Calliande’s magic, for all of its potency, was not as effective against creatures of dark magic as a soulblade. If a large enough pack of urvaalgs or stronger creatures found them, they might not be able to fight their way free. 
    The grass rustled around his boots as they crossed the valley, the creek murmuring against its stony banks. Bones dotted the ground, along with rusting pieces of armor and old swords. Ridmark stepped around the tusked skull of a long-dead orc, the empty eyes staring at the bleak sky. He wondered who had fought here. Perhaps these orcs had fought the high elves. Or maybe they had been slaves of the urdmordar, sent to besiege Urd Morlemoch. It was also possible that any number of predators had killed the orcs and left the bones behind.
    As the thought crossed his mind, a thick white mist rose from the creek and began to swirl over the banks. 
    “Back!” he said, thinking of Morigna’s acidic mist. The others obeyed, drawing weapons, and the mist over the creek started to glow with an eerie blue light.
    “Ridmark,” said Calliande. “That’s a necromantic spell.”
    “Someone’s casting it?” said Ridmark, looking around.
    “No,” said Calliande with a shake of her head. “It’s…old. An echo of an old spell. I think…”
    The mist resolved itself into ghostly figures. Ridmark saw warriors clad in overlapping plates of blue steel, winged helms upon their heads and gleaming swords in their fists. Their faces were the color of bleached bone, and their eyes were black pits into nothingness, a void without limit or boundary.
    Dark elven warriors.
    “Slay them!” bellowed the shade with the most elaborate armor, a staff wrought of gold and ebony in his right hand. “Slay the high elven vermin! Kill them all, and show them the true might of Incariel!” 
    “High elves?” said Kharlacht. “There are none here.”
    “It’s an echo of the spells they used,” said Calliande. “Shadows and nothing more.”
    That alarmed Ridmark.
    “Shadows,” he said, “can have power.”
    “I see the spell,” murmured Mara, her eyes wide. Her peculiar transformation at the Iron Tower had left Mara with the Sight, the ability to see magical auras. “She’s right. It’s…old, repeating itself over and over. Like a broken clock stuck in a single second.” She blinked. “We’d better go. I don’t think it’s…”
    “Rise